Recently,
I wrote about a hospital stay. I was ten. Left in a big city facility by my
parents. I begged my mother not to leave. Of course, she had to and I was
forced to find my way among strangers for the first time in my life. That’s if
I don’t count beginning school, an event that was more catastrophic for me than
for most children.
In
the children’s ward, I made friends. Most were mobile and reasonably healthy,
except for the boy in the iron lung. This contraption appeared as harmless as a
knocked-over garbage can but it wheezed like a dragon. By ten, I knew a lot
about polio, the disease that had forced a boy my age inside the dragon.
I
told the story of my hospital stay and the boy stuck inside the dragon as I remembered it, all the while, conscious that if I were to
visit that children’s ward, and even if it hadn’t been remodeled since my stay, I likely wouldn’t recognize it. Its windows, walls, its cheery nursing staff,
the pajama-clad children I scurried with after evening visiting hours are vivid
in my mind Yet, I know if I connected with one of the other children, whose
names are all forgotten, they would say, “That’s not how I remember it.”
Our
memories are uniquely ours. We can tell our stories however we choose to
because they are our memories. Another family member may say they remember it
otherwise and tell the same story from their perspective. Both are valid.
Five
people can attend the same event. Each one will leave with a different story.
One has a conversation with a stranger that colors their entire experience.
Another meets an old friend. One eavesdrops. One is aware of color, innuendo
and drama. Another takes away facts only.
In
writing our stories, we should be aware that someone else’s experience of the
same event may differ. That doesn’t invalidate our take-away. And we must write
it, not to please another person, but to let the reader know how our memory
of a certain event has shaped us.
William
Zinsser says, “Memoir is how we validate ourselves.” Therefore, our experiences
must always remain our story. We have to get over the idea that someone else
will read them and disagree with our take on how events unfolded.
About
telling our stories, Annie Dilliard writes, “The act of writing about an
experience takes so much longer and is so much more intense than the experience
itself that you’re left only with what you have written, just as the snapshots
of your vacation become more real than your vacation.”
I find that as Christians we can be so dedicated to a facts only view of life that we miss out on serendipitous experiences. We can write our
personal stories freely only if we refuse to care who reads them.
My
hospital story ended up being about the first time I realized that good writing
hums. In the tiny children’s ward library, I discovered The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain’s words hummed in my
chest – it was a marvelous discovery that lasted beyond my short hospital stay
and remains with me today. I’m guessing that no other child in that hospital
left with the same experience as I did.
******
2 comments:
Very nice reflections, Rose. Memories do shape us profoundly.
Ed Hird+
As I read this, Rose, I think about the accounts of the Gospels. So very much the same yet so very different. Beautiful post on how we each have a unique vision. Thank you.
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